


Three letters, give or take

by Kiyara_Iris



Series: Spell Out This Feeling [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Explicit Language, Homophobic Language, M/M, Milkovitch style angst, POV Mickey Milkovich
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 13:10:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20657786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiyara_Iris/pseuds/Kiyara_Iris
Summary: Mickey hated three letter words. Weren’t even any good swears with three letters except for ass, and there were implications there he didn’t want to think of. They were useless fucking filler, taking up space between the important, interesting things. A waste of fucking time.And likely what they could fill in the blank with under his cause of death if the coroner was cheeky.





	Three letters, give or take

**Author's Note:**

> Love this pairing, both their story in show and as characters to play with.  
Hoping to post a new chapter at least every two weeks, but I might just be having a rare moment of optimism.  
Enjoy ^_^
> 
> Postscript: the explicit warning is for later chapters.
> 
> Post-Postscript: Decided to break this into a series rather than chapters. The stories feel self-contained and finished, a series of vignettes in these boy's lives.

Mickey hated three letter words. Weren’t even any good swears with three letters except for ass, and there were implications there he didn’t want to think of. They were useless fucking filler, taking up space between the important, interesting things. A waste of fucking time.

And likely what they could fill in the blank with under 'cause of death', if the coroner was cheeky.

Because it was shitty three letter words that were going to get him killed. One that his father spewed like hot oil down a murderhole: _fag_. And the other that fucking proved it, engraved on the inside of his arm the morning of his 16th birthday like his soulmark was saying happy birthday mother-fucker, say goodbye to breathing:

_ ‘IAN _’

He actually clutched at his throat, feeling the rabbit pulse thrumming through his neck like it was trying to complete all the beats a full healthy life should work through in one go. Jesus, he was going to have a god damn heart attack before his father could try to beat the gay out of him.

He remembers getting dead drunk pretty much immediately after. He also remembers pulling half a dozen joints from his brother’s stash, not giving a shit for the beatdown he was gonna get for it later. He remembers leaving the house after nightfall, almost begging god for a fight, or a knifing; anything to end the acidic fear corroding his brain.

But then there’s hours and hours that he just- fucking loses.

He comes to, standing in the too-bright fluorescent light of a tattoo parlor, the tingling scent of St. John’s Wort and metal stinging at his nose, pushing his brain into coherency. What the fuck was a place like this doing open?

He blinks, sways, blinks again and actually acknowledged the world fully. He knew these shitty dad rock band posters; knew the dirty blue and off-blue checkered tiles he was standing on.

Knuckles burn with recent memories. FUCK U-UP. A stupid, angsty teen mood that had struck him while rolling on e and left him fucking embarrassed.

But fuck if he rocked it.

This was the kind of place only open at night. Where all manner of shit went down, where all Milkovitch’s got tattooed since back before Mickey was a mistake that should have been thrown out with the rubber.

His swimming eyes finally beach themselves on a woman: petite, absolutely covered in intricate, faded, beautiful tattoos, gray hair pulled loose into a bun, arms crossed and eyes hard and wary but not unkind. Wrinkles move like shifting waves around a sardonically arched eyebrow. She nods a bit towards his hands.

“Ya ain’t gettin’ a refund.”

Mickey glowers a little, nodding. It was usually unspoken; no matter the level of inebriation, permanent was permanent. The only stipulation was money. Whining afterwards just made you a pussy.

He moves forward, throwing himself into a rolling chair, letting it carry him shakily across the floor and into a padded table, grabbing it a little as it tries to rock away from him. He carefully, solidly -with everything left in him- lifts his arm onto the surface, exposing the tender underbelly.

“Make it -go ‘way.”

It's long, long moments before he registers movement, even slower watching her hand come into focus, pressing two fingers into the side of his palm to tilt his arm more towards her. He’s breathing hard, wanting to jerk away from the touch, but part of him constantly craving any kind of gentle intimacy.

Jesus, he hopes he has a few joints left.

“If I cover it, your daddy’s gonna notice ya ain’ got one.” He finally does jerk his hand away, using the movement to pat around his jacket and jeans, laughing triumphantly as he wrestles a wrinkled joint out of his pants pocket, securing a lighter from the other. He lights the end, sucking it gratefully a few times before offering it out. A gnarled hand takes it.

“Ya got a better plan?” She inhales an impressive stack of smoke, motioning him to stick his arm back out. She contemplates for a minute before slowly releasing a steady cloud and handing back the joint. She wanders over to one of the desks.

Mickey leans back and closes his eyes, letting himself fall into the wonderful haze that begins every time he gets stoned. He hears the scritch of a pencil across paper start up.

It’s not until he feels her sit close to him that he opens his eyes and sees she’s holding up a piece of paper with a word. A name:

‘_LIANNA’ _

He has no idea what he’s looking at for the few seconds it takes his brain to come back online, but once it’s there, it’s-

“Holy _shit_-” She smiles and nods, holding a grabby hand out. He goes to hand her the joint.

“No you dipshit, the lighter.” He hands it over without question and watches as she lights a corner of the paper, dropping it to the floor and they both watch it smolder. No one would know, no one would ever-

Mickey never knew any of his grandparents, but he loves her in this moment like he would his grandmother, like fucking family. More family than his shitty father, or douchebag brothers. It’s as solid and consuming as he loves Mandy. Respects her, fears her, admires the shit out of everything -even the stupid shit- that she does.

Mickey feels everything, every emotion so deeply, he hardly has room for anything else- when he hates he seethes, when he’s sad the world is drawn in tight and horrible, and when he loves it cascades through him and he shakes with the need to make everything good, _better_.

She nods, satisfied in his happiness, and the ritual starts- laying out tools, prepping the skin, transferring the purple lines to mark the way, pouring ink into an impossibly small ink cup that always reminded Mickey of the thimble Tinkerbell sacrificed herself drinking poison out of.

(His father doesn’t know he saw that film, hated pansy Disney movies, especially ones where men wore faggy tights. Mickey had been 8 when he saw it and fell in love with Peter Pan. That bright, mischievous smile, that thirst for adventure. He’d crowed with delight when Wendy had been shot, ignoring his sister’s demands he shut up.)

Buzzing fills the room as Mickey’s mind drifts through memories, alcohol and weed completely disassociating him from any pain. But it’s not an intricate endeavor and it’s over soon. He stares down at the letters. Six. Three more. Three letters damning him, and three swooping in like Peter Pan to fucking save the day from the pirates. He thinks there’s a metaphor there, some kind of stupid poetry about destiny, but he’s too fucking tired to care.

He hands her fifty bucks as he stumbles to his feet, taking two side-steps to right himself, but he’ll fucking power through, like always. He’s loose and tired and heavy in a way that has nothing to do with physical weight when he feels spindly, strong arm pull him back around and he’s being hugged.

He’s filled with gratitude, but inside that, tucked deep away, a horrible aching sadness is rooting itself, because he’ll get to live…but he’ll never get to love. Not really, not like that.

Someday, because God is a vengeful fucker, he’s probably going to meet his soulmate and even if- even if they could be together, the look in…fuck- in _his_ eyes when he looked down and saw his name hidden like an embarrassing rash…

Mickey clenches his eyes shut, carefully embracing the tiny woman. After a few embarrassing seconds he lets go all in a rush and pushes back out into the night, down the street and away from the disgust of everything he was, everything he’d grown up into.

Who fucking deserved a soulmate like him? What the fuck was the universe thinking? Maybe his soulmate was a piece of shit- yeah, the guy probably murdered puppies for fun, or was a vegetable lying in a hospital from years on a crackpipe.

He hoped (jesus he hoped so, so _much)_ the fucker never crossed his path, that they were one of the rare pairs that never met and he could live his life, faking his pursuit of ‘Lianna’, get laid sporadically along the way, and die (in a hopefully not too painful way) alone.

That’s all he fucking wanted out of life.

If he met this Ian, he was gonna fuck him up. Make him fucking hate Mickey, make him not even think for a _second_ that he matched up to the other’s soulmark. He didn’t even feel bad for the asshole. If he was shitty enough to land Mickey as a soulmate, then he deserved to be miserable for the rest of his life too.


End file.
